


Offered Gift

by Lacertae



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Face-Sitting, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Nanites, Nanomachines, Omnics, Oral Sex, Restraints, valveplay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-28
Updated: 2017-09-28
Packaged: 2019-01-06 15:53:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,891
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12214023
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lacertae/pseuds/Lacertae
Summary: *Reaper/Zenyatta, Doomfist/Zenyatta, mild hints at Doomfist/Reaper*Reaper is called to Akande's office room, but it is not for debriefing. He is to be offered quite a gift.





	Offered Gift

**Author's Note:**

> This almost wrote itself

**Offered Gift**

 

Reaper’s footsteps are quiet, almost silent.

The corridors of Talon headquarters are wide and well lit, and a part of him despises that –he’s grown used to hiding in the shadows, they are part of him, in a way– but he does not show this.

He has been summoned, and while he has better things to do, no one in their right mind would wish to deny Akande what he wants… not even him.

He expects Akande to be sitting behind his desk, perhaps, or standing in front of the window of his office, looking out, planning –this is how he finds him every time he’s summoned. Their meetings are concise and clipped, with few unnecessary words spoken between them, but that’s why Reaper finds Akande worth of his respect.

Akande seems to understand that Reaper’s focus is short-lived, and never words something longer than he should.

It’s difficult to concentrate, lately more than ever, with the nanomachines that are part of his body buzzing and wriggling inside him. They are distracting, constantly moving –so that Reaper himself is in almost perpetual movement, though on the outside he looks immobile, lifeless. The nanomachines writhe and act up at the smallest noise, a movement done too quickly, a noise too loud… and the constant pain, the ache they cause in what’s left of his body is Reaper’s only companion.

The only time they calm down is whenever he is on a mission, focused and deathly –then they calm down, surge forwards in anticipation, as if they lead him on to his next kill.

It is almost peaceful, compared to their overwhelming buzz.

Reaper has grown used to this because there’s nothing else he can do, and it’s been so long he almost does not remember how it was, to be able to focus, and think clearly without pain. He copes. He makes do.

What _does_ greet him when he pushes the door to Akande’s office, though, is nothing he expected to see.

Akande is standing in the middle of the room, but he’s cradling an omnic in his arms.

It takes Reaper a second to realise who that is –again, it is difficult to concentrate on useless things– but then he remembers. It is the one Akande brought back around a week earlier, the omnic he stole from OverWatch, the one he’s been obsessing over, giving no one else any attention.

Reaper scoffs, the mess underneath his mask shifting into a sneer.

He does not see the appeal, though the omnic’s figure is rather pleasing to the eye –yet, Reaper cannot find it in himself to care, either way.

Still, he takes notice, somehow. The omnic has a nine-point array on his forehead, his body lithe and parts of his chassis missing. He seems familiar, almost, and Reaper spends a single second to wonder if he’s met him during one of his missions. Perhaps. After all, Reaper has difficulties remembering those who are not worthy, and if he finds the omnic familiar, he must have done something intriguing, not just because he looks nice enough to bend over.

The moment he hears the door open Akande shifts, and turns to look at him. He is smirking, and when he spots Reaper his lips stretch a fraction wider.

“Welcome.”

Reaper stops, closes the door behind his back, and waits.

Instead of speaking further, though, Akande turns fully. The omnic seems to wish to resist, but one of Akande’s hands is wrapped around his neck, tight enough that it could bend that delicate wiring of his, and he can see the defeat in a slight hitch of the omnic’s shoulders.

“Why is he here?” the omnic’s voice is curious, but low. Strained. He could almost sound breathless, though omnics do not need to breathe.

“You will see. I am sure you two have already met,” Akande murmurs, his voice pleased and thick with something that Reaper does not care to analyse. This is no battle, he sees no reason to.  “This is Zenyatta. Zenyatta, I do believe you are aware of who he is.”

Zenyatta. That is the omnic’s name.

Reaper tilts his head forwards in recognition, the name sparkling a memory, and it is a sharp one –this omnic fighting alongside the younger Shimada, Genji, shooting dark, disquieting energy and ammunition at him. He had looked impressive in battle, despite his misleading appearance. Reaper had approved of that, appreciated the fire, the sharpness, the sting of a challenge. It had not lasted, for they’d retreated before Reaper could fully engage.

What a shame.

“… I do.” Zenyatta sounds weary, wary.

He should be –Akande has had him in his possession for a week, playing his games, circling around him like a predator. Reaper has no idea what he wants to do with him, nor does he wish to find out, but if Zenyatta is here, then he has to pay attention.

Akande smirks, hums. “I know you wonder why you are here. You see, I have discovered quite a few things about Zenyatta while he has been our… guest–” Zenyatta makes a small, clicking noise, and Reaper vaguely registers it as a snort “but one in particular I feel might be relevant for you, Reaper.”

Reaper refuses to show any kind of interest, squares his shoulders and stays still. Akande needs to get to the point.

Yet, Reaper does not fail to realise something has shifted in the room.

There is a tension in the air, almost thicker. He clenches his fists, fights with his urge to dissolve in part to keep himself uninvolved, and wins.

Barely.

Akande’s other arm is wrapped loosely around Zenyatta’s waist. It is almost a possessive position, but Reaper does not think about it until Akande shifts, and with a smooth, quick flick of his wrist, pushes Zenyatta’s pants down his sides.

The fabric falls, heavy, on the floor, exposing the omnic’s legs and his front.

Zenyatta makes a startled, shocked noise, and one of his arms surges down in an attempt to grab his pants, though he is too late, and Akande’s grip on his neck prevents him from bending down or moving away.

Bare and now naked, Zenyatta is still trapped in Akande’s grip.

After what feels like forever, he lets his hand fall back against his side, though his servos are tense, his shoulders hitched up. He’s wary, and so is Reaper.

“ _What_ exactly is the meaning of _this_?” he growls out, and he becomes agitated enough that his nanomachines surge up a little, the edges of his body and arms fraying into the light of the room.

He does not dissolve, but it takes enough of his control that he partially slips, and he falls into a defensive position.

Destabilized, he has no idea why he’s now part of one of Akande’s games.

He does not like it.

“Hmmm. I wonder.” Akande moves his hand down Zenyatta’s body, slowly, his fingers wriggle past the edge of his hips, and Zenyatta scrambles to stop him, his hand wrapping around Akande’s wrist. “Let go,” Akande hums, sharp, and Zenyatta freezes. “You won’t stop me.”

“Why are you doing this?” his voice does not tremble, but Zenyatta sounds conflicted. Akande’s thumb rubs down the side of his throat, the gesture almost fond. “This… he–”

“You will show all of yourself to him, monk.” Akande tilts his head forwards, his chin resting on the curve of Zenyatta’s neck. “If you won’t do it on your own, I will. Your choice.”

A few seconds tick by, and Reaper does not know where he factors in this game of Akande’s –he is exerting his dominance over the omnic, this is power play, but he is wrong-footed, and confused, and his edges fray a little more.

The motion seems to attract Zenyatta’s attention, his forehead array fluttering brighter for a second.

“… oh.” Zenyatta’s voice is soft, wondering.

He turns his head to look at Reaper fully, and his attention seems to focus on him now, and though he has no expression nor eyes, Reaper feels uncomfortable, an itch in the back of his mind urging him to leave.

He cannot. Akande ordered him to be here, and despite everything, he still owes him a grudging amount of respect.

“There is much discord within you,” Zenyatta murmurs, sounding detached, worried, and his tone makes Reaper angry. “So much anger, so much _pain_ …”

He tilts his head forwards, almost as if he wishes to get closer, though Akande’s grip on him is steely.

“I can feel it resonate so clearly. You are trapped, and angry, and…” Zenyatta trails off, his forehead array blinks on and off.

This omnic has no right to be condescending –to _pity_ him– when he’s become Akande’s plaything, and if the closeness between them is any indication, his sex toy as well. He will be used and then cast away when Akande is done with him, like he matters none.

Yet, before he can grunt out something scathing, something cutting and mean, Akande speaks up again. “Yes. This is why I brought him here. This is why I have this gift for you, Reaper.”

His fingers slip back inside Zenyatta’s chassis, seeking something deep within him, but this time Zenyatta does not stop him. He flinches and shakes, delicate wires barely brushed by his deft fingers until he finds the latch of his modesty panel and unlocks it.

The panel slides away, and Zenyatta shifts slightly, aware that he is now exposed to Reaper’s eyes.

Despite himself, Reaper does not look away.

Instead his eyes focus between Zenyatta’s legs, on what he can see of his valve.

“… really? You wish to give me your omnic whore?” he sounds sardonic, unimpressed, but it is naught but a front.

The sight… Reaper rarely finds himself interested, nowadays –he has little focus, little _care_ – yet he cannot deny the appeal of what he sees. What he’s been offered, if Akande’s words are to be trusted.

The omnic is pleasing to the eye, he has fire within, and this… held in Akande’s arms, his body appears thin and almost frail-looking even when Reaper knows better. He has soft, round curves, his metal polished yet weathered by battles and time, small scratches that make him look more real, less of a machine and more of something else. He is a monk, Reaper almost remembers with a jolt. A pacifist, or he should be –yet he fights.

Is this why Akande’s interest was caught by him?

Or is the pleasing, gentle plane of his facial plate, the inviting figure he offers there, naked and exposed, metal and circuits and wires that should make nothing appealing out of him, and yet… with his modesty in full view… Reaper wants to take the offer, and leave all thoughts behind.

He wonders, idly, what it would feel like, to part those velvet lips of his and take a taste. If the omnic sounds as pleasing as he looks when he begs.

The thought is enough to send a flare of _want_ through his body, almost enough to soothe the agony the nanomachines inflict him –almost, but not quite.

Akande’s expression turns stormy, a frown replacing his smirk. Reaper stops, and feels the danger when Akande’s eyes darken in anger.

“You will not use such vulgar terms again when referring to him.” Zenyatta is still, hasn’t moved yet, but he slowly lifts one hand and touches Akande’s arm, gently. Akande takes a deep breath and appears to relax.

Reaper, mystified, remains silent at the display.

What is… _this_?

He expected fear, distaste, repulsion –yet the omnic, Zenyatta, is not scared, nor is he cowed by Akande, even when he could be destroyed with a single twitch of the prosthetic hand curled around his throat.

Akande still controls him, has him caged in his arms, but this closeness, this show… it is nothing Reaper can understand.

“Do not make me regret offering you this, Reaper.” Akande turns again to look at him, but he still does not smile. “You can take what I give you, or leave.”

There, Reaper hesitates.

Any preservation instinct inside him is screaming, though he does not understand why, for him to leave.

He hates the offer, hates the power Akande has over him, and the lack of understanding in what he’s been offered is even worse. He hates when he is not in control, despises the feeling with every inch of his writhing, aching body.

Yet he wants it.

He wants to taste, and see why Akande would offer to share something he seems to hold in such high regard.

This is ridiculous –he’s standing in a room with his leader and a naked, exposed omnic that’s been offered to him like a treat on a silver platter.

He sneers, though it remains hidden by his mask, and makes a vague shrug motion with his shoulders. “I’ll take what I can get, _boss_.” There is enough sarcasm in his tone that he is sure he will be chastised, that Akande will get furious once again –some part of him wants that, wants the challenge, wants the anger at him, wants to fight or get chased off– but it does not.

Akande hums, shakes his head, and the frown melts into a quiet laughter, his shoulders shaking in mirth.

“Then come and take it.”

He tilts his body forwards, and Zenyatta’s frame follows that movement. Then Akande slides his hand down his leg and pushes it open, baring the inviting, plush folds of Zenyatta’s valve to him.

Zenyatta makes a startled sound, partially muffled by the hand around his synth, and his fans whir loudly, embarrassment making his forehead array brighter, yet Reaper’s focus is elsewhere.

He takes one careful step forwards, expecting Akande to sneer and retract his offer –expecting Zenyatta to protest, fight his way out of Akande’s arms, or at least attempt to– but neither thing happens.

Zenyatta tilts his head away, one hand clenching down on Akande’s wrist, the other coming to rest over the hand around his throat. Whether this is to ground himself or for the compromising position, balanced on a thin razor blade between two Talon members, Reaper does not know, nor does he care.

Instead he moves closer, then closer still, and finally he is close enough to Zenyatta to be able to feel his inner workings.

His nanomachines are mechanic, just like Zenyatta, yet they are superior, sneaky, deadlier. They were created to make him a perfect killing machine, and that he is. He can feel, in a way, his circuits ticking, his fans cycling, the way his servos tense and his pistons shift.

He can feel the way Zenyatta warms up under his stare, and is surprised when he glances down and sees a translucent trail of slick barely peeking from his valve, though from where he is standing, it is difficult to see it clearly.

“You like this.” His voice is rough, huffy. He barely uses it unless needed, and he’s already spoken more than he’s done in the past month.

Zenyatta shivers, and tilts his head back so he’s staring at him with his optical receptors; he does not speak, but Reaper perceives the stare as a challenge, and he intends to own up to it.

“Even if you didn’t…” Reaper pauses, leer bleeding into his tone “I would make sure you did, in the end.”

Zenyatta chirrups, and Reaper feels his interest in the way his frame heats up slightly. “Hmmm. That sounds almost like a challenge,” despite everything, Zenyatta still sounds unconcerned, his tone almost teasing. “Do try your best.”

Reaper is surprised when he barks out a laughter, the sound raspy and unfamiliar on his lips, yet the feeling inside his chest, weird as it is, is amusement.

So, he takes up the challenge, and falls on his knees in front of Zenyatta.

Above him he hears Akande’s pleased chuckle, followed by a small surprised noise from Zenyatta’s synth, but Reaper’s attention has shifted to what is right in front of him.

Akande’s hand is wrapped comfortably around the curve of one polished thigh, and Reaper would admire the mechanics that comprise Zenyatta’s body if he had enough focus for that. He does not, but it’s not important.

The plush, dark grey folds of Zenyatta’s valve, with the barest hint of translucent slick peeking from within, are the only thing he can see.

They look rather impressive and high-tech for such an old model, but even that thought is short lived, and disappears quickly behind the bruising buzz of his nanomachines, so Reaper forgets everything else and surges forwards.

The mask covering his face frays into mist when he’s almost touching Zenyatta, though he does not let it fade away fully –he does not want anyone to see his face, not even now, not even for _this_ – but enough that his lips are uncovered.

The silicon folds are soft, smooth and welcoming. They’re also warm, and Reaper parts his lips against the opening, pressing his tongue forwards and finally _tasting_. The slick is thick against his tongue, and has no real taste, but the texture is pleasant, and he swallows before letting his tongue dark forwards again.

Above him, Zenyatta makes a soft, startled noise.

Mouth open, Reaper traces the contours of those plush folds from one side to the other, pressing down hard where he senses there’s a sensor hidden below, and wraps both hands under Zenyatta’s thighs, caressing the curve of his ass. It’s metal and not soft, but it offers him support to press his face harder against his valve, burying himself into it.

It smells of metal and plastic, and it vibrates softly due to thermo-regulating sensors, but Reaper is familiar with that, and he is not bothered –in fact, it’s still different from the smell his own nanomachines have, pleasant enough that he wants more.

All of Zenyatta is welcoming, and he plans to feast on him as much as he’s allowed to, and then more, for he is greedy, and wants it all.

His nanomachines surge forwards, and they part the folds of Zenyatta’s valve, revealing a glowing nub peeking at the tip of his entrance, the teal light just as beautiful as the slick trail of lubricant seeping from inside him.

Reaper does not need to decide –he follows a trail from the base of his valve upwards, licking the slick and coating his lips, chin and tongue with it, then finishes under the nub and then traces it with his tongue, gently.

He is patient.

Zenyatta less so –he grinds his hips forwards, strains against Akande’s grip, bucks forwards, but Akande does not allow him… and yet, he is almost silent.

His synth makes a soft click, then the quietest little hum, but it is not enough. Reaper wishes to hear him moan loudly, and plead him to give him more. He wishes to hear his voice broken and shattered as he plunges his tongue as deep as it can go, and he will not be denied.

This, too, is part of the challenge that Reaper relishes.

“He tastes good,” Akande murmurs from above him, but Reaper merely scoffs, and does not reply.

“Please, do not–” Zenyatta attempts to speak, quietly, but Reaper’s tongue catches on his nub and whatever he wants to say dissolves into the quietest gasp.

Not enough.

He purses his lips, laps at the nub and then sucks on it, though not too hard –not yet– his tongue trailing lower, swirling in small, teasing circles over the folds. He feels them twitch under him, and the gush of slick sliding down his lips and on chin is welcome and treasured.

More.

He flattens his tongue, presses it fully against Zenyatta’s valve, laps more of his lubrication and returns to his nub, teases it, nudges it with his tongue, then with his lips, relentless but slow, for Reaper wants this to _last_.

He is rewarded with a soft, strangled moan, then another, then a low, insistent hum as Zenyatta tries to stop himself from making sounds.

“Now, now,” Akande’s voice takes Reaper by surprise, for he almost forgot his presence, so lost within the folds of Zenyatta’s valve to take care. Akande sounds pleased, his tone thick with lust. “Do not silence yourself. He wants to hear… and so do I. Give it to me, monk. I wish for it all.”

Zenyatta’s reply is a full body shudder, and Reaper growls –he wants such reaction to come from _him_ , not Akande.

Akande gives him more space, tugs Zenyatta’s leg wider for him, and he pushes closer, circles that nub with practiced ease, tongue teasing it and lips massaging it until he can feel every shudder and tremble of Zenyatta’s body around and above him.

His plates are warm and grow warmer still, heat making his fans cycle hard to keep up, and Zenyatta’s synth cracks with static and tiny groans and chirps. Pleasure mounts, undeniable, as Reaper devotes himself to stealing every sound, every moan, from Zenyatta, relishes every time he gets louder, aches for more.

Such beautiful, enticing show, easy to get lost into it.

Zenyatta hums, stirs and writhes in Akande’s hold yet he cannot move, trapped between his hard chest and Reaper’s body, strains in the hold and does not know where to go.

Lubrication slips down his chin, dribbles almost, and Reaper is victorious, knows he has Zenyatta wet and ready for him, if he so wished to take, but he is enraptured with the sounds, the smell and the taste, works himself in a frenzy until he cannot think of elsewhere he wishes to be, except here, kneeling in front of this omnic to eat him out.

“ _Ah_ –”

He wishes for more so he lets himself take it. He opens his mouth wider, and his tongue dissolves, nanomachines turning it thicker, longer and sinuous. He trails it across Zenyatta’s nub, hears a sharp intake of breath, then he pushes it barely past his folds and it slips inside with ease.

Zenyatta is so wet, slick and smooth, and Reaper knows where every sensor of his is… where to touch, where to stimulate, where to press until Zenyatta keens and _breaks_ –

He retreats, and Zenyatta follows him, desperate for more contact.

Reaper finds himself chuckling, humming, the vibration against Zenyatta’s nub making him shake harder.

He rubs the flat base of his tongue against the opening folds, pushes them open just enough so, does not press in more than that, and Zenyatta once again grinds against it, seeks his own pleasure and is denied, and Reaper…

“haaaaa… ah–”

…Reaper takes pity of him, and pushes his tongue inside.

The strangled, needy chirp that leaves Zenyatta’s synth is like music.

Oh, _now_ he gets loud –he hums and gasps as he gets filled, Reaper’s tongue expanding within him, pushing his tight walls wide open as he penetrates him, tastes metal and a thicker flavour of his teal lube, the glow of his nub almost blinding this close, and for a moment, a trick of light perhaps, Reaper almost believes it to be golden.

He pushes the thought away, too busy to care, seeking out more.

Zenyatta’s hand moves to touch him, grab the top of his head, but Akande is quick to wrap around his wrist and move it away, but the action seems to make Zenyatta more frantic as he attempts to fold on himself.

Reaper is still pushing deeper inside him.

The nanomachines wriggle inside Zenyatta, fill every inch of his valve until they reach its end, push him as wide open as he can be stretched, then even _more_ , and Zenyatta _screams_ –

Pleasure surges through his body, undeniable and intense, as every sensor inside his valve flares up.

Reaper’s nanomachines click and connect with Zenyatta’s circuits, their processors lock and cycle into a single thread, and Reaper’s mind is flooded with new data, so much what’s left of his human part is almost overwhelmed until his nanomachines regulate its intake.

Still, he moves _deeper_.

Zenyatta is shaking, desperate to cling to something, and sobs, arches up against Akande, pushes his hips first away from Reaper, then into him, and Reaper hears him scream, babble and beg, his words reduced to incoherent chirps and chirrups broken with static and white noise and beeps.

He undulates his tongue, his nanomachines retreating, and then–

They rush back inside.

Zenyatta screams again, pleasure overtaking his processes.

With nowhere to hold onto, he’s lost in the pleasure, and lets himself go.

He can feel Reaper just as Reaper can feel him, and in this connection he feels, like an echo, Reaper’s agony, and it only makes the pleasure surge stronger, like a balm. His mind trembles, stutters, his servos straining, his pistons stretching as he arches his neck up, his legs twitching, every circuit in his body burning, and he wants–

Akande murmurs something, yet neither Zenyatta nor reaper can hear him, both lost into each other.

Then, Reaper feels something else.

With every undulation of his tongue, every time he fucks Zenyatta with it, he can feel warmth increase from Zenyatta’s body. It leaks from him, grows harder to ignore, and it is…

Pleasant. Almost sweet, in ways only Reaper’s nanomachines can comprehend, for they act up, attach themselves to the warmth and feed on it.

Gold.

Golden light.

It fills Reaper’s sight, then it slides in his mouth through his nanomachines, and expands through him, making him choke, and…. and

The pain recedes.

The agony from his nanomachines, the continuous, never-ending pain abates, turns into a dull background noise, persistent, then…

Fades, and fades, _and_ –

A rush of pleasure surges through, so strong now that it takes him unaware, and lust coils inside him, unlike anything he’s felt before.

His mouth full, his nanomachines still busy fucking Zenyatta, Reaper finds himself blinking into the golden light and his mind, for the first time in almost a decade, clears up.

The haze recedes, like a tide moving away from him, and sharp like a blade, Reaper can think again.

He _focuses_ –on Zenyatta’s pleas, on his loud, overwhelming sounds as he begs for Reaper to fuck him harder, on the way he feels against him, on the pleasure he feels through their connection and–

Reaper chokes, groans, and for the first time in forever, he feels himself swell and ache in answer, his cock hard in the confines of his pants.

It aches in such a different way from usual, and the loss of his constant pain is so strong, so complete, that he almost sobs.

And his nanomachines continue drinking on the gold light.

It is seeping from every inch of Zenyatta’s chassis, soft and blinding and gentle, and it grows stronger every time he trembles and shakes and moans.

In his pleasure, this is his gift, and Reaper drinks on it and he feels himself grow stronger, more _real_ , the edges of his body solid and present.

Above him, Akande shifts.

He pushes Zenyatta forwards, the omnic pliant in his grip, so lost in his pleasure that without him he would fall, and Reaper is forced back until he loses balance and falls on the ground, barely enough time to react as Zenyatta is dropped, heavily, on his face.

Reaper’s world is blanketed by metal thighs surrounding his head.

On the floor, Reaper feels. He feels the softness of the carpet under his back. He feels the weight of Zenyatta’s body press down on his head, the increase of lubrication gushing from his valve despite how tight it is around his tongue, swollen with pleasure and heat. He feels Akande push Zenyatta down until he’s sitting on Reaper’s face, and his nanomachines give him an image of Akande forcing Zenyatta’s arms up in the air so he’s arching up, unable to hold on anything, yet his hips are free to grind down on Reaper and fuck himself on his tongue.

Zenyatta lets out a strangled gasp that shatters into static, pleasure building between his legs, to the base of his core, spreading inside him as the nanomachines vibrate and stimulate all his sensors, so much relay data, so much sensory input that he is lost and crashing, and Reapers feels it, feeds it on, wants Zenyatta to lose himself, craves for it.

His consciousness expands, grows larger than the confines of his body, but he stays in control, the nanomachines buzzing but obeying to him instead of the opposite, and…

Akande’s foot nudges against the swollen bulge of his clothed cock, and Reaper curses into Zenyatta’s valve and arches into it.

It is not gentle, nor is it nice –but it’s good, and burning, and offers him an edge off to the pleasure in his body.

This new rhythm is intoxicating.

Reaper sees nothing but teal and gold, tastes nothing but Zenyatta’s lubrication, breathes through his nanomachines and keeps fucking Zenyatta hard, and Zenyatta grinds down into him, desperate, still so loud, so beautiful, and Reaper watches him, watches himself, his consciousness growing yet grounded into his body, pushing his hips into Akande’s foot to get more friction, swallows down the pleasure he shares with Zenyatta, now void of any pain, and he wants–

Zenyatta tenses above him, his sounds growing more desperate, louder and louder, and Reaper can feel the pressure coil inside him, inside both of them, cresting and crashing and he lets it come, arches up into Akande’s foot, swallows and lets his nanomachines expand again–

“Please,” he grunts out.

Above them, Akande echoes his plea with a soft growl, his voice somehow louder than Zenyatta’s moans– “Come for us, Zenyatta.”

Zenyatta climaxes, frame stuttering and trembling, arched up so much his servos ache and creak, and Reaper feels those impossibly tight wall around his tongue clench down, and his mouth is invaded by another gush of lubricant, made all the sweeter by Zenyatta’s moans.

And then, the golden light takes over, and it

is

absolute.

Unlike anything Reaper has ever felt, the light encompass his body, burns through him like fire, like a blessing, and he does not even feel fear, the warmth enough that there’s only light, and pleasure, and the steady pressure of Akande’s foot against his aching cock, and Zenyatta’s valve around his tongue and–

Oh, how good it would feel to bury himself inside Zenyatta, fill every crevice and nook of his circuits, burrow himself in there and…

and–

Reaper growls and comes in his pants, twitching and arching up into Zenyatta’s body, hands clenching down on the curve of Zenyatta’s ass, pants and feels more alive than he’s ever been since his rebirth, so complete and warm he could cry, if he had the energy to.

When the warmth fades, the golden glow receding until it’s only a memory in the back of his head and in the spots in his eyes, Reaper pants, body full and heavy, pleasantly vibrating, and realises with a jolt that the pain is still gone.

It almost feels like a dream, like a mirage rather than reality, but Zenyatta is heavy on top of him, and grounding, and the clarity in his mind makes everything sharp enough that it’s the pain-induced dullness from before that feels like a horrid nightmare.

Above him, Zenyatta is still shaking, but Akande is holding him up, preventing him from burying Reaper under his weight, and when Akande gently lifts him up Reaper retreats from inside him, his nanomachines buzzing under control, calm and content.

“I…” Reaper shuts his mouth, surprised to hear his voice sounding so human, so weak, and the thought is almost frightening, so he chooses to ignore it, and focuses only on the pleasure still making his body twitch.

In the silence that follows, where he does not dare to speak up again, all he can do is look at Zenyatta, and wonder –what was that light, that warmth?

It truly was a gift, but Reaper does not fool himself into believing he’s been offered more than a glimpse into the workings of this omnic.

With his mind sharp again, calculating, observing, Reaper notices more than before the pleasing curve of Zenyatta’s spine as Akande helps him up, though his legs shake enough that he has to lean against him, trembling as his system sends smaller shocks through his processors, prolonging his pleasure longer.

He has caused that.

Reaper stretches, lazily, catalogues the pleasing buzz in his body, appreciates the fact that he can feel it, and he feels in control of it, and then catches sight of the teal trail running down Zenyatta’s thighs, proof of his pleasure, proof of Reaper’s skills, and feels his still uncovered lips stretch into a smug smirk.

Without a thought, he sends his nanomachines forwards, feels with them Zenyatta’s legs, cleans away most of the translucent, teal lubricant and calls them back, sated and sluggish.

Akande observes him, and for a moment Reaper wonders what prompted him to share, what prompted him to aid him even, if Akande now is looking at him as his leader or as something else, now that they have shared something and Reaper has no intention to step back from that…

Then Akande, unmindful of Reaper’s presence, cradles Zenyatta in his arms, teasing his abused valve with deft fingers, and carries him around the desk. Reaper can barely look away from the way Akande’s fingers tease the folds of Zenyatta’s valve, yet when he glances up he finds Zenyatta looking at him again.

He wonders if Zenyatta ever looked away, but the pity he’d thought to hear in his voice feels so far now, and probably never existed, even if the sting of its perceived existence still tugs at the back of his mind –still, Reaper’s pride is easily bruised.

Akande lowers Zenyatta on the desk, so he’s leaning on it on his front. Zenyatta tilts his head back, sluggish and languid, and Reaper wonders how it looks from Akande’s position.

It must look good, because Akande pulls down the zipper of his pants, his hands caressing down the sides of Zenyatta’s hips, and then mounts him right there, fucking him against the desk, slow and steady, uncaring if Reaper is watching –or perhaps, counting on it.

Zenyatta moans and clings to the edge of the desk, weak and overstimulated and sensitive, as he’s brought to a second, quieter orgasm, shuddering and gasping, a different edge of despair to his voice that is entirely to Akande’s benefit.

And through that, Zenyatta never stops watching him. If he is putting on a show, it is for him, or for them both, but Reaper takes all he can, greedy and _wanting_.

He watches, observes, studies every curve of Zenyatta’s face plate, of his body, watches the way they work with one another, and remains sprawled on the floor, too tired to move, too fucked out to, yet feeling more alive and awake than he’s felt in over a decade.

There will have to be time to demand answers, later, but is certain Akande will explain, once he’s done with his omnic.

For now, he simply enjoys the afterglow, and breathes.

Reaper feels alive, and whole, and _strong_.

There is no pain.


End file.
